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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27204496">Villain</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/icaruslaughed/pseuds/icaruslaughed'>icaruslaughed</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Suptober 2020 [20]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Hell Trauma, Nightmares, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, mentions of torture, sorry not sorry for all the trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:07:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>694</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27204496</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/icaruslaughed/pseuds/icaruslaughed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>day 25 of suptober</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Suptober 2020 [20]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955047</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Villain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> There’s so much screaming. From everywhere. It surrounds him, a horrifying harmony of voices of all sorts wailing their agony, crying out their sins as if anyone who cares can hear. No one can hear but those who wield their blades with careful precision, drawing out the pain, slicing and dicing and tearing flesh that isn’t quite flesh in the same way that this place isn’t quite a place.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’s Hell. </em>
</p><p><em> He soaks in the screams, smiling slightly as he sees his own fingers wrap around a knife that carves into some poor soul’s ribcage. Today is nothing particularly special, just practice with both new and old tools. Even so, his process is more than simply methodical, it’s </em> artful <em> . There’s a wicked, twisted sort of beauty in what he does, in what he gets to do now that he’s been taken off the Rack. Even as they tore into him, he watched and studied the craft. </em> One of Hell’s finest <em> . When he was once reminded at the end of every day that all he had to do to be free was say one little word, he’s now told that he has promise as the Pit’s heir. He revels in the memory of that praise, letting it guide his movements, strengthen his skill. He feels more than hears the soul screaming beneath his blade, taking some wicked pride in it. He’s allowed to, after all. </em></p><p>
  <em> It’s Hell. </em>
</p><p>Dean sits up in bed, gasping for air. Remembering that Sam is still asleep in the bed across from him, he carefully throws the covers back and slips on his boots. He always sleeps fully clothed these days. He tells Sam—and by that extent, himself—it’s so he’s ready to make a quick getaway if they ever need to. It’s true, but only partially so. The other half of it is that he’s scared that if he lets himself relax, he won’t be able to wake up from the nightmares, which is absolutely stupid, he knows, but it’s happened before so who’s to say it won’t happen again?</p><p>He sneaks out of the dingy motel room, shutting the door as quietly as he can behind him and praying that Sam doesn’t wake up. Once he’s made it into the safety of Baby’s front seat, he lets the tears slip silently down his cheeks. They’re warm and flow in rivers like the blood that used to stream from his skin, his eyes, his nose, and suddenly he can’t breathe right and his hand fumble to wipe the tears—not blood, damnit, <em> tears </em> —from his face and his eyes (intact, good) fly open and the neon hotel sign blinds him and he doesn’t care because <em> it’s not Hell </em> . <em> It’s not Hell, it’s not Hell, he got out of that godforsaken place and away from the memories of the </em> things <em> he did there </em>. He’s out and alive and safe and he doesn’t deserve it but here he is anyways.</p><p>He doesn’t deserve it. How could he? He ripped into any soul placed in front of him like a rabid dog, except a rabid dog is still an animal acting on instinct and he did it for the sheer pleasure. Hundreds of souls, now broken at his hands. How can he claim to fight evil when at his core, that’s what he is? Why does he call Lilith a scheming, malevolent bitch when he’s the same at heart? He goes on and on about being a hero and saving the world and doing the right thing when he’s toeing the line between hero and villain himself. The only thing keeping him from going Darkside is Sammy and when he’s gone… There’ll be nothing left to stop him. He <em> is </em> the villain in this story, he knows it, because only villains revel in the suffering of others. But for Sam, for the world, he has to go on pretending to be a hero, to not want his pain to be justified with the blood of humanity. He has to pretend to be good, to hide who he really is. It’s nothing new to him, not really, but it’s complete agony.</p><p>It’s Hell.</p>
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